The Wolves of Paris
by Fenrir Vanagandr
Summary: "Why was he crying?" Bella peered into the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of the puppy. He was afraid, the shadows replied. Most creatures fear the unknown. But he's happy now. Can you hear him laughing? Bella strained her ears and thought she could hear a tiny little laugh. She smiled and pushed her head further under the bed. "When can I go in your world?" Soon, little one.
1. The Wolves of Paris (Act II)

**Authors Note: I am going to make this as quick as I can as I'm not much for reading long authors notes in fanfictions. This has been playing in my mind for a while now, and I finally found the song that allowed the story circling its way round in my head to become a reality. This story is a little AU and involves a considerably younger Bella than we know of, and contains minor character death. Some of the content written may not be to your taste, therefore if you are not a fan of dark themes (aka death), then I strongly suggest that you do not read beyond this point. Thank you to those of you who have taken the time to read this authors note. Now on with the story.**

**I do not own the Twilight series or any of the characters used in the making of this story, they belong to the book sagas author Miss Stephanie Meyer.**

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><p><em>When the days had grown shortest, and the leaves all died.<em>

_When life became scarce and all was covered in ice._

_There lived a pack of wolves against every odd. _

_That grew hungry and tired and needed to hunt._

_They'd sneak in to the towns in the dead of the night._

_And seek fire from conflict and warmth in the light._

_And though they weren't evil, and knew it was wrong._

_They couldn't escape, the lust for the blood._

"_The Wolves of Paris (Act II)" – Crown The Empire_

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><p>There were wolves under Bella's bed. They spoke to her in the darkness, whispering stories about their forest home, where the trees sparkled gold and the ground was made of silk. She listened with rapt attention, dreaming of the day when she could walk down the sunlit paths, to the worlds beyond, where castles grew from pods and faeries wove dresses out of spider silk. She only ever saw the wolves' eyes, grape sized balls of molten gold that danced merrily when they laughed.<p>

The wolves told her that she was special and that no other person was graced with their presence. Bella wasn't sure if that was true. Her friends (of the few that she had) talked about the creatures under their beds, though most of those were monsters and not friendly wolves. So one day she decided to ask her mother, since mothers knew everything.

"Mum, do you have wolves under your bed?"

Bella watched as her mother put down her cup and smile serenely at her. "No honey," she said. "But I had foxes under my bed when I was your age."

"Maybe your foxes can play with my wolves!" Bella reached over and grabbed her special kitty cup. Renee just smiled and ruffled her hair.

The wolves didn't like Bella telling her mother about them. We are for you only they said, their eyes glowing brighter as they spoke. _You must never speak of us to anyone. That will make you a bad girl, and you don't want to know what wolves do to bad little girls. _

Bella never spoke of them again, to anyone. They became her little secret, story tellers who filled her head with magical words that went beyond their forest. They told her of the land of shadow, where people only spoke in whispers and never went to bed, and the world under her feet, filled with hungry gnomes who ate any dreams that happened to trickle down the ears of sleeping children.

One day her father brought in a tiny puppy that he had found in their front yard. Bella was sure that it was one of her wolves' children, lost and unable to find its way back under the bed.

"Dad" she said, careful not to mention anything about her wolf friends. "Did you find the puppy near my window?"

"No sweetheart," he said. "I found it near the gate." He looked confused at her question and Bella did not press any further.

"It's a pretty puppy," she said. "I hope its mummy and daddy aren't worried."

"That's why we're going to find out who its mummy and daddy are," her father said. "So he can go home."

That night, Bella snuck the puppy out of her parent's room and brought it under her bed.

"My daddy found a puppy," she said. "Is it yours?" A paw reached out and pulled the puppy towards the shadows, causing it to yelp. The yelping continued for a few more seconds and then stopped, basking the room in an eerie silence.

Thank you, the wolves said. _He wasn't ours, but he will be much happier here than he was in your world. _

"Why was he crying?" Bella peered into the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of the puppy.

_He was afraid, _the shadows replied. _Most creatures fear the unknown. But he's happy now. Can you hear him laughing?_

Bella strained her ears and thought she could hear a tiny little laugh. She smiled and pushed her head further under the bed. "When can I go in your world?"

_Soon, little one._

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><p>Bella didn't like the wolves' stories anymore. They never spoke of castles or gnomes any longer. They spoke of blood and twisted things she didn't understand, nor wanted to. Bella learned of people who cut up bodies of their neighbours and hid them in swamps, of little children who starved to death in basements and closets, and fields of bodies where whole families were left to rot. They told her how one day her mother and father Renee and Charlie would rot from the inside out and slowly start to fall apart; how her parents would leave her and become one of the bodies left to rot, only stuffed underground in the dark. And one day, she too would join them.<p>

They forced the stories into her head, until images formed in her mind's eye, like a movie that would not turn off. All day long she saw twisted bodies and twisted people, calling to her, singing to her, pleading with her to join them in their game of death.

"What is death?" she had asked the wolves one night, after they spoke of a young prince dying in one of their stories. The wolves laughed and one of them stuck its head out into the darkness, showing itself to Bella for the first time. The wolf had long coarse fur that ran down its face and muzzle, but the golden eyes glowed in front, as if they were floating in front of the fur.

_We will show you, _it said and the next night the stories changed.

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><p>Now she knew what death was. It was a monster, lurking around corners, waiting to strike. Death lived in everything. She could choke on a piece of corn and fall into endless dark, or she could fall ill and never be better again, no matter how many cold compresses mother dearest put on her head.<p>

And death could be wielded, like one of the weapons now swimming through her mind. People poured death over others, stomping those that got in their way. They slaughtered for sport, for gain, or just to see the life drain from one's eyes. Most people killed all they could find. The wolves showed her the truth.

She clung to her mummy and daddy. They weren't killers. They were islands of safety, perfect protection from the terror of the world and her own mind. They calmed her fears with cookies and hugs and she knew that no matter what, she was safe in their arms.

"Your stories make me cry," she told the wolves one night, as she crouched down next to her bed. "I don't like you anymore."

The wolves laughed and stuck their heads out of the shadows. _We're sorry to hear that, _they said. _We were just showing you the truth. But we have one more story to tell you and it will make everything better. We promise. _

"O-okay," she said, ready for a story that would take away the horrors crowding her head.

_Listen little one, the wolves crooned, and be free._

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><p>Bella knew the truth. The whole world killed, locked in a game that pitted neighbour against neighbour, each trying to draw the blood of the other. They never spoke of it, but all participated, teaching their children the joy of the blade.<p>

Her parents didn't murder. They never came home covered in blood, giddy from the hunt, and they never brought wounded children for her to practice on. They were weak, the dregs of society, poor deluded souls who most looked upon with pity.

She refused to pity useless creatures. It was her duty, her right to join society's game. No one would fault her for cutting the blight of her parents from life. They were robbing her of humanity's greatest pleasure and would pay the price.

Mummy and daddy sat at the breakfast table, eating their eggs and toast. Bella stepped over, holding the long black blade her wolf friends had given her. Daddy looked up and smiled.

"Good morning! Sleep – "He stared in confusion at the weapon clutched in her small fist and his eyes quickly clouded with concern.

"Bella where did you get that?" he said and her mother turned around and gasped.

"You'll cut yourself!" She sprung from the table and rushed over to Bella, but Bella jammed the blade into her mother's side.

"You are the one I'll cut," she said, watching her mother stumble back, eyes wide and clamped to her wound.

Her father ran forward, but Bella leapt up and jammed the blade into his chest.

"Foolish," she said, taking the knife from his chest with a sickening pop. "You should have run."

"Bella," her father croaked, as he fell to his knees. "This isn't real…it's a dream…wake up…"

"It's not a dream," she said, stepping around her father to get to her mother, who slipped on her own blood. Bella grabbed her mother's hair and lifted her head, the strength of wolves pumping through her heart.

"Honey," the woman sobbed, but Bella ignored her and ran the blade across her neck.

"Pathetic," she said and dropped her to the floor. "No wonder you never played the game." Bella made her way back over to her father. He continued to kneel and mutter, worth less and less with each sobbing word.

"You shouldn't have robbed me of the game," she said, holding the tip of the blade to his throat.

"What…what game?" He looked up at her, watery eyes glistening with cowardice.

"So you deny it even with your last breath." Bella sneered and gripped the blade tighter. "You deserve death." She jammed the blade into his throat and twisted the handle.

Her mind exploded in a blast of blackness and Bella stepped back from the scene her body twisting into something…powerful. She was shadow, pure and free, and she shed everything; her skin, her mind, her name.

_Well done_, her brethren said, rising up from the ground and surrounding her, their glowing eyes shining bright with approval. She looked over at the two human bodies. She would remember them, her first kill.

"Let's go home," she said. The other wolves nodded and they all faded into the shadows, leaving only the smell of breakfast and death behind.


	2. The Girl Who Cried Wolf

**Authors Note: Thank you to those of you who have followed the story and added it to their favourites, you have no idea how much joy it brings me to know that you like my story. I have decided that _The Wolves Of Paris_ will become a collection of one-shots and short stories, as I have so many ideas in my head that I want to put down, but no way of thinking on how I can expanded them. Therefore I thought this option would be best. This particular short story will continue for three more chapters, before moving on to the next one-shot/story. If at some point I have another idea for a one-shot written in this fic, I will let you know in an author's note at the end of the chapter, if not I assure that I will make sure to tie up any loose ends, so as not to make the story look unfinished. Once again I thank you for taking the time to read this authors note, as I know there are many of you just like myself, who do not enjoy seeing or reading them. I appreciate it all the same.**

**As some of you may have noticed, this short story used to be in separate chapters, however I have decided it would be easier to have all the material condensed into one long chapter with page breaks in between in order to know when there will be a change in scene.**

**Once again** **I do not own the Twilight series or any of the characters used in the making of this story, they belong to the book sagas author Miss Stephanie Meyer.**

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><p><em>When I was a child, I heard voices…<em>

_Some would sing and some would scream_

_You soon find you have few choices…_

_I learned the voices died with me_

_When I was a child I'd sit for hours_

_Staring into open flames_

_Something in it – had a power,_

_Could barely tear my eyes away_

_All you have is your fire…_

_And the place you need to reach –_

_Don't you ever, tame your demons_

_But always keep them on a leash_

_Hozier – Arsonist's Lullabye_

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><p>There was a legend in the little town that I had called my home.<p>

A legend of The Wolf. Even at the tender age of 9, I was very interested about the The Wolf. It was said that The Wolf was larger than a house, and had fur the colour of the darkest shadows, teeth as sharp as knives, any eye the colour of liquid amber. There was not much to be said about The Wolf, other than that it took people deep into the forest, and devoured them. It was to be expected of it, as it was its nature.

After all, it was just a wolf.

Fear of The Wolf caused stone walls to be erected around our small town that many of us called home. Despite such legend of the creature, I never felt uneasiness, for this quiet little town was my home. And I was safe inside it. My family consisted of my father and me, for my mother had passed away shortly after I was born.

The house we lived in was small, but large enough for the both of us. People would tell me that I looked like my mother, although I never knew if this was a good thing or not, considering I had no memories of her. I was small for a nine year old, the other children my age towered over me, making me feel weak and frail.

My hair was long, taking on the colour of chestnuts, and my eyes were like the colour of the morning sky. People in the town told me I had beautiful eyes, and the thought seemed silly to me growing up, for they were just eyes, nothing more. My father was a fisherman for the village, along with four other men. They would fish in the stream that flowed down from the mountain, whilst the children played downstream.

It was a curious thought to see as despite fishing from dawn to dusk, he never smelled of fish. I found this to be strange, but at my innocence, I thought nothing of it. My father was a kind man, respected in our town by others, for he respected them himself. His hair was the colour of pine and his eyes were a gentle caramel, which would assume I had gotten my eyes from my mother, as well as my hair. Father and I had gotten along easily, despite my young age, I found no difficulty in helping with the chores around the house.

Surprisingly enough, they were games to my young mind. After father would leave every morning, I would do the day's tasks, and then go outside to play with the other children. A simple life. We would play in the centre of town, with dolls and any other objects we would happen upon. That morning was no different than others past. I had finished my chores the same time as usual, despite them being different than the previous day. My friend Jacob and I had happily ran to the centre hand in hand to join the other playing children. We all enjoyed ourselves, laughing happily until one of the boys whose name I do not recall spoke up.

"You know what I heard last night?" He asked no one in particular. Having our attention, we all turned towards him.

"What is it?" Asked another. The boy being happy with being the point of focus, smiled proudly.

"My parents were talking about The Wolf. Saying someone had disappeared a few days ago, and The Wolf must have taken them. The village people are concerned on how The Wolf got inside." He said his tone more dramatic then it needed to be. I looked at Jake , who frowned unhappily.

"You're making that up, Quil." Ah-yes, that was his name. Quil pouted, and shook his head.

"Am not!" He whined. The other children looked at each other, wide eyed with a mixture of expressions. Fear, sadness, curiosity, wonder, even excitement, I don't know what expression I wore, but Jake sighed, and took my hand. He began to lead me away from the others and I looked up at her, confusion on my face.

"Jake, where are we going?" I asked him. Jake continued to look ahead, and sighed again.

"I want to check the town walls, and see if what Quil said was true. There must be something if it is." Jakes mind was far more adventurous then mine, and perhaps more curious as well. Maybe that is what influenced my own curiosity. I'm not sure. All I know is, is curiosity is a very dangerous thing to have, if not contained. And neither of us knew quite how to control it yet.

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><p>I looked up ahead at Jake, as he pulled me along behind him. People looked down at us and smiled, oblivious to what we were doing.<p>

"Jake! We can't search every single inch of the walls!" I said to her. Jake shook his head, his wavy black hair trailing behind his head as he continued to run.

Despite Jake being two years older than me, I was faster. My legs felt weird being forced to maintain a slower pace than when I ran. We both slowed as we approached the wall.

"Bella, search that way, and I'll search this way." He said. I slowly nodded, releasing a slow sigh and went towards the right searching along the walls for any sign or a possible breaching point. It took me longer than expected, considering I had to climb over fences, and boxes of supplies and such. After what felt like forever, and still no sign of Jake, I found it. A board was propped up against the wall, hidden behind a shack. I climbed back behind it, and pushed the board over. A hole the size of a boulder lay hidden, and I stood up, looking for any sign of Jake. When I happened to glance at the hole again, something caught my eye. Despite my better judgement, I slipped through the hole, and picked up what lied on the ground. Jakes shoe. He was out here. My eyes trailed down the path that led towards the river, and I sighed. Jake must've gone ahead. I placed the shoe back on the ground, in case anyone needed to find us, and ran after her. My red hood flew down my back, the wind pushing it off my head. Dodging trees and branches was easy for me, for I had what my father called "forest legs." Running through the woods felt natural to me, and I had loved doing it, before the wall was built.

"Jake!" I called, hoping for a reply. When I received none, I ran faster. "Jake! Where are you?" I called again. Silence. My feet slowed as I approached the river, and I looked around. Just as I was about to give up again, I noticed something odd about the water. The water was tinged red, and in that moment I felt my heart stop dead in my chest. Blood. Immediately my feet carried me up the stream, and I searched for any sign of what could have caused the blood. When I was forced to slow, for the mountain began a few feet away, I looked up at the surrounding hills. Where was Jake? His other shoe lay on the grassy hill, and I pulled my hood up. Walking carefully, I climbed on top of the hill, and I felt my eyes widen in horror at the sight in front of me. There, beside the boulders, laid my dear friend's body; torn to shreds. Jake was dead.

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><p>It's been seven years since Jake was killed. When I had returned to the town to inform the towns people of what had transpired, no one believed me at first that is until a search party found his body. Immediately everyone blamed The Wolf, so the wall defenses were reinforced. We now had watch towers on either side of the entrance gate, and no one could come in or leave without the okay from a guard. The attacks hadn't gone down though, so the whole idea seemed pretty useless in my eyes. When I woke up on my sixteenth birthday, my father was home, which was unusual for him lately.<p>

"Morning, happy birthday sweetheart." He said kindly to me when I walked into the kitchen.

"Thanks." I murmured sleepily. My father sighed, and I turned my head towards him. "Is something the matter?" I asked confusion on my face. After all, he seemed fine a second ago.

"No, I'm just…it's nothing." He finally sighed, seeming to give up on whatever idea was upsetting him. I watched him carefully.

"Are you sure?" Those little words were all it took for him to open up.

"You're going to spend the day at his house right?" My father asked suddenly, his face concerned. "And by "his" you mean Paul, correct?" I asked him. My father's face contorted into a scowl, and he gave a simple nod. I watched him with cautious eyes before finally shrugging. "He's been busy with sword smithing things." I said slowly. My father seemed comforted by my words, and he smiled triumphantly. My eyes rolled as I walked towards the door and pulled on my red hood. Father watched me with gentle eyes, and arched an eyebrow at me.

"Where are you going so early in the morning?" A small smile played on my lips, and I unlocked the door.

"Just because he's been busy, does not mean that I can't go say hello." I said slyly, and closed the door behind my exit. I swear I could hear my father sigh inside.

The town was as lively as it had been usually when I awoke from my slumber that morning. A few people stopped and wished me happy birthday as I walked past them. It was a small town. We all knew each other here. My small, delicate steps slowed as I approached the large stone building. I looked up at the steam coming from the chimney and I sighed. He was working again. I carefully opened the heavy wooden door and stepped out of the way as a towns guard walked out of the table. He looked down at me and smiled gently, sheathing his weapon that had just been repaired.

"Good morning Isabella Swan." The guard greeted me kindly. I looked up at him, and smiled demurely.

"Good morning." I replied. He placed a hand on my shoulder, his eyes kind.

"Have a happy birthday." Was all I said s his hand fell from my shoulder and he walked off, whistling a cheerful tune as he went.

"Well aren't you well liked here" A smooth voice said from behind me. I looked over to see a familiar boy I had grown to care about over the years. Perhaps I shouldn't describe him as a boy. Despite him only being eighteen, his build was that of a man in his twenties. My dear friend smiled down at me, his blue eyes stood out brilliantly. He wiped some dirt off of his face with a rag and stuck it in his side pocket. Paul arched an eyebrow at me, and I realised that I still hadn't answered him. My face flushed in embarrassment, and I looked up at him.

"Not all of us have to be trouble makers." I answered smartly to cover up my mistake. A smirk spread itself across his face as he stepped to the side and held the door open with one long arm.

"By all means, after you my dear rabbit." He said with an amused tone. I scowled at the nickname he gave me due to my small body and quick legs. A chuckle escaped his lips as I stepped passed him inside the stable and I looked around. Swords of different metals were hanging displayed on the stone walls, and a furnace blazed silently in the middle of the far off wall. The smell of burning wood fanned across my cheeks and I inhaled the scent quietly.

The heavy wooden door closed loudly behind me, as Paul stepped around me and towards the oven. He effortlessly lifted a piece of lumber and tossed it into the flame, causing the golden ashes to scatter momentarily before the flames licked at the wood hungrily. I watched with curiosity as he turned on his heel to look at me, and leaned back against a table on the wall beside the oven. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever until finally our silence was interrupted by the door opening behind me. Paul's glance left my face and looked at whoever just entered. "Bella if you'd like, you can wait for me upstairs and I'll join you shortly." His blue eyes were icy as his stare turned into a glare at the person behind me. As quickly as I noticed it, it was gone and his expression was calm. I nodded obediently and walked around him towards the staircase, only to hear a quiet snicker and the sound of someone gritting their teeth.

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><p><p>

I wasn't aware of whoever was in the shop, but by the tone in Paul's voice, I knew it was someone he rather I didn't see. And if that was the case, I knew better than to disobey his preference. My feet padded down the hallway upstairs, and I opened his bedroom door. The familiar smell of pine fanned my face, and I smiled softly. I walked over to the wooden nightstand in his bedroom and picked up the photograph I have looked at countless times. It felt heavier for some reason, but I dismissed the thought quickly as my imagination. Paul's and my younger self's smiling face were captured as we had played together years ago. Now being older, and a man, Paul didn't have time for "my childish games" as he phrased it, whenever he loved to remind me I was still a child in his eyes. Paul seemed to love to do that a lot now that I think about it.

As I moved to put the photo back, something fell out of the back of it, and fell quietly onto the floor. Curiosity washed through me as I silently bent down to pick it up. An old news article dating seven years prior stared up at me, and I felt my heart stop in my chest. Seven years ago. The year Jake was killed by The Wolf. A feeling of unease swept over me. Surely this wasn't…But my eyes read over the small font, I found myself confronted with the very thing I hoped not to find. This was a copy of the article about Jakes murder.

_"The body of eleven year old Jacob Black was found in the woods early this morning. Evidence left behind would suggest this is The Wolfs doing, and would be recommended to be left at that. The Parents of Black had said he was always wandering around with her friend Isabella Swan, discussing things about The Wolf. It was then proven that Swan was indeed the one to find the body. Further investigation was declined permission by the son of the Lord Cullen, Carlisle."_

My breath hitched in my throat, as I stared with wide eyes at the story in my hands. Isabella Swan. I was written about in this article.

Why did Paul have this?

The sound of someone walking up the stairs distracted my clouded thoughts, as I hurriedly placed the newspaper clipping back into the frame behind the photo. I had just placed the picture back in its previous place when the bedroom door opened behind me.

When I turned around my gaze met with Pauls who stared me down silently. His eyes darted between me and the photo beside me, and his expression turned into a scowl. I suddenly felt uneasiness wash through me as he slowly walked towards me, each step echoing dramatically against the wooden floor beneath us.

"What were you looking at Bella?" His question came out slow and even. I stepped to the side and out of his way as he picked up the photo I held in my hands only moments before. My eyes looked up to watch the side of his face, and I could see annoyance written clearly on his expression. As if he sensed my staring he looked over at me, his irritation gone and instead arched an eyebrow at me. "You've seen this picture before. Why the sudden interest in it?" he asked again when he realised I didn't plan on giving him a response.

I merely shrugged and started to head towards the door. His voice calling after me held me in place before I could make my escape. I couldn't look back at him, as his tone dropped to a more gentle breath. "I'm sorry Bella. Please don't go yet."

"Why do you have that?" I couldn't stop the words from escaping my lips, as I stared at the door in front of me.

"I don't understand your question."

"In the photograph, behind the picture, it's tucked inside the frame." I said quietly. The room was silent before he slowly exhaled.

"Did you ever hear the saying 'curiosity killed the cat'?" He asked me finally, and I looked back at him.

"What's that supposed to mean Paul?" He didn't answer me, and instead slowly put the picture back down on the nightstand before his blue orbs met mine.

"Why are you here?" I shook my head in disgust at the game we were currently playing with each other. Neither of us were answering each other's questions, and I was growing tired of it very quickly.

"I wanted to spend time with you on my birthday. But it seems that that was a bad idea on my part." I said irritably. To be completely honest, I had no idea why I was suddenly acting hostile towards him, but something about his behaviour lately was getting under my skin.

Paul and I rarely fought.

His eyes widened in surprise at my words, although he quickly composed himself and his face was hard again. Paul said nothing as walked towards me. I listened to each thud his footsteps made, and thought he was going to say something to me. However he brushed past me, bumping my shoulder roughly as he opened one of his dresser drawers.

Paul pulled out a small box that was wrapped sloppily in old newspapers. This reminded me instantly of the photograph, as he silently held the box out to me. I looked at it in confusion, and my eyes looked up to meet his. "What is this?"

"Just take it and leave." He spat acidly, and I flinched at his tone.

Regret flashed onto his eyes before he once again masked it.

Slowly I reached out and took the small box, my fingers brushing against his slightly and he yanked his hands away from me. Why was he acting so cold? He stood there watching me hold the small box, and sighed when I made no move to open it.

"It's not going to bite you." He said sarcastically. I didn't know why there was suddenly hostility emitting from him, but it shook me up and I just nodded. My eyes glanced away from the box and out the window. The sun was nowhere to be seen, being hidden behind the thick layers of the afternoon fog and I slowly exhaled, deciding to get whatever was inside over with.

Carefully I pulled the twine that held the box closed and watched it unravel slowly. Putting the freed string aside, I slowly pulled he paper off of the box, and stared at it-now bare, curiously. Paul remained silent behind me as I removed the lid from the box, and looked at the gold locket that was hung from a small delicate chain. The design of the locket itself was simple, but it had a small golden wolf that appeared to be running across it. I smiled at it and was about to thank him when I noticed an odd smell coming from inside the locket. I turned it over in my hands to open it, but Paul stopped me by placing his hand over mine.

"It's Wolfsbane." He said simply. I arched an eyebrow at him in confusion as to why he'd place a plant with such toxins inside an ornament I would be wearing. Paul gave no reply but a slight shrug, as if this answered my obvious question. "It keeps wolves away, and knowing you, you'd somehow manage to attract the attention of The Wolf. Just humour me and wear it alright? I know it's been awhile since the last attack, but it would help me sleep at night if you had this on." He finished. I reluctantly nodded, agreeing and allowed him to place it on me.

I watched as Paul slowly removed the delicate piece from its container, and part of me noticed how he made a conscious effort not to touch the locket. I brushed the side thought away and placed the necklace against my skin and reached behind my head to fasten it around my neck. I heard the tiny snap, and Paul brushed my hair out from under the chain, a small smile growing on his face as he stepped back to give me some space.

I was admiring the locket when he finally sighed and I glanced up at him. "You know you look like Little Red Riding Hood with that thing on all the time." He said, looking at my red cape that hung behind the door. A small smile grew on my face and a giggle erupted from me softly.

"What does that make you then?" I teased, glad to see my dear friend had gone back to his normal self, if you could even call him that. I didn't spend enough time with any others besides him, so I was hardly a fair judge of the typical male.

My gaze returned to the window, and I noted that from the way the sun seemed to be coming from, it must have been around noon. I was here longer than I had realised. Leaving Paul to his thoughts I thanked him again for the necklace and moved to my cape, which I pulled over my head and tied it closed at the base of my collarbone. Paul walked over to me, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead and murmured "Happy Birthday" against my skin, as he started heading down the steps. I was going to follow, when he looked backed towards me, his icy blue eyes having a strange hint of weariness to them. A question as to what was suddenly the matter _this time_ was going to leave my lips, when his words came out before mine could.

"The Big Bad Wolf." He said, answering my forgotten question.

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><p>The rest of the day was uneventful after leaving Paul's house. When I returned home, my father was standing outside with one of the guards of our town. The two of them were so deep into conversation that neither of them noticed my arrival, and it wasn't until I cleared my throat that either of them looked at me.<p>

My father was the first to say anything, and by the look on his face I knew it wasn't going to be anything that I wanted to hear.

"Bella, I'm glad you're home. I was just going to come collect you." I scowled at his choice of words. Collect me? That made it sound like I was an item that someone forgot to deliver to him. It demeaned me.

"There wasn't any need for that. I'm here now, as you can see." My tone made my annoyance abundantly clear. I was never one to mask how I felt.

"Sam and I were just speaking about something I want you to be aware of." He said, ignoring my tone of displeasure. I just simply arched an eyebrow at him, allowing him to continue.

However, it was Sam who spoke instead.

"We discovered another hole in the town walls-"he started. Jake's face flashed in my mind, and I felt my jaw harden.

"You seem to have this problem more often than I think necessary." I spat towards him.

My father shot me a warning look, silencing any further remarks from me. Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as he slowly nodded.

"Anyways, we believe someone's been sneaking out of the town late at night or…" His voice trailed off, and I waited for him to continue. When he didn't I was about to ask him to, but my father finished for him.

"Someone's been letting The Wolf inside the town." He said his town serious.

Neither my father nor I said anything to each other after Sam had left. We both entered the house in mutual silence, and I was about to retire to my room for a while, when my father called my name.

I glanced back at him from my current spot on the foot of the steps that led to our second floor, and saw his eyes fall to the pendant that currently rested around my neck.

My father's expression quickly turned to a mixture of annoyance and curiosity as he studied the details of the locket.

"Paul give that to you?" He asked quietly after recollecting himself, and putting on a less agitated mask. I wondered briefly what my own face looked like, whether or not I was able to hide my emotions as well.

"Yes it was a birthday present." My voice came out blunt, and I quickly made a note to lighten it up a bit. This was my father after, he was all I had.

My father seemed to be having a battle with himself as he tried to think of a proper response. Judging by his behaviour I knew I wasn't going to like whatever was on his mind.

"Bella, I need you to listen to me before you freak out. Just hear me out on this alright? I know you're not going to like this." He said, confirming my thoughts. I locked my jaw, an immediate response as I watched him continue to decide his next choice of words.

"I know you care about Paul-"his tone had become gentle, and his eyes met mine, pleading. "but I don't want you being around him anymore, until Sam and the others are able to clear up this Wolf business."

I felt my eyes widen in shock at his words. Here my father was, telling me to stay away from the only friend I really had left. I would have understood if I didn't know Paul for over five years.

"You're asking me to stop hanging around Paul because of The Wolf? I asked, gripping the railing of the stairs to stabilise my wavering stance.

"I'm not asking you Bella. I'm telling you." My father said, his own voice hard now.

"You don't have any right to-"

"I'm your father; you'll do as I tell you while you're living under this roof. Am I understood?" The steel in his tone silenced me, and I silently stood under his intense gaze.

"You're free to return to your room." He said after a moment, and I turned away. I felt the tears brimming in my eyes, and I blinked them away before hurrying up the stairs.

I was going to lose my closest friend for a second time in my life.

I inhaled quietly as I collected my scattered thoughts. I had spent the remainder of the fading day thinking. Each thought tied to Paul in one way or another, and I found thinking of him became harder and harder at each one.

My gaze turned out towards the closed window and rested on the silver moon. A bitter smile etched itself on my face as I remembered the countless summer nights Paul and I spent watching the moon together.

"_You know, everyone is a moon in a way." _Paul's voice echoed in my head.

_"How do you figure?" _I had asked, a small giggle escaping past my lips. Paul's eyes had looked back towards the moon that was shining brightly above us, a white circle in the sea of black that was the night sky.

_"We all have a dark side in which we never show to anyone."_

A soft clank against the glass of the window brought me out of my sudden memory, and I blinked as I returned my focus to it. However the window looked normal, as though I had imagined the sound.

Clank!

What looked like a small pebble hit the window, and I realised someone was throwing them to attract my attention.

Cautiously I slipped from the comfort was my mattress, and slowly walked over to the window, just as another pebble smacked against the glass.

I glanced down at the earth a story below, but couldn't see anyone within the darkness. I was just about to close the window again when I heard someone whispering my name in a raspy tone.

No sooner than hearing said voice, I was greeted by the face of Paul as he looked up at me from the ground below my window.

"What are you doing here? I breathed. I didn't think he'd be able to hear me, be he merely shushed me and began to stretch and motioned for me to step back.

Something inside me told me to listen, and my feet automatically shuffled backwards just as I heard a grunt escape his lips and the sound of the tree that stood across from my window being slammed against.

A moment later Paul's frame swung through the window, and he landed on the balls of his feet with a loud thud.

Both of our heads snapped over towards the door, but after a moment of continued silence, we both exhaled. My father was still sound asleep.

Paul turned to me with a crooked grin on his face, and I merely stared back at him with what I assumed was a blank expression.

"You don't look very happy to see me." He noted, amusement dancing in his eyes and the tone of his voice. My discussion with my father earlier today resurfaced into my mind, and I flinched at the memory.

Paul noticed this as well.

"What's the matter Bella?" He asked his tone suddenly serious. I shook my head, and I found I could no longer meet his eyes when I bowed my head to hide from his gaze.

"You shouldn't be here." I whispered. I heard Paul's breath stop, and we remained silent for a moment. "Because of earlier." It wasn't a question, and I shook my head.

"My father doesn't want me around you." I said quickly. For whatever, this seemed to calm him down, and I looked up at him again, suddenly finding my confidence.

"Since when did you listen to Daddy?" A smirk played on his lips, and I found myself staring at him in awe.

Paul crossed the room, and I watched as he slowly lifted my chin with his index finger. Our eyes met again, and we stared at each other for what felt like forever. Every memory we ever shared played in his eyes and I found myself lost in his gaze.

He chuckled at my flustered expression, and flashed his teeth at me as his smirk widened.

"I am curious though. What have I done to upset Daddy this time?" He mused, his tone taunting in a way.

Paul's cockiness baffled me.

"Sam told him about another hole in the walls. He thinks someone's letting The Wolf into the town." I murmured whilst his thumb stroked my cheek softly.

Something flashed in his eyes but he quickly composed himself.

"I fail to see why I'm being punished for that." His breath fanned across my face and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks.

"My father's reasoning for a lot of the things he does don't make sense." I agreed. My gaze drifted down to his lips, and then the white that was his teeth.

"I like you better without the cape on." He mused, his tone becoming raspy. Neither of us were looking at each other now.

"What big teeth you have..." I breathed. Was it my imagination? No. His canines had definitely seemed to grow into what looked more like the fangs of a dog.

His breath was against my neck, and travelled down my back, giving me goosebumps and sending me into a series of shivers.

"All the better to eat you with, my dear…"

Paul pulled back and started heading back towards the window. He was swinging his legs over the sill before looking back at me with a mischievous look on his face.

"Watch out for The Big Bad Wolf Bella." And with that, he dropped down. Paul was gone.

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><p><em>"The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity."<em>

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>**There we have it, _The Girl Who Cried Wolf _is over_. _This short story was lighter on the horror aspect and mainly focused on the suspense and angst elements, and was also more on the stereotypical/ fairy tale side of things. The next upcoming chapter will be a one-shot entitled _The Price of Insanity_ and will be uploaded later on this afternoon/ early evening, and will focus more heavily on the horror aspect of it all. Side note, the songs placed above the chapters are not there simply as fillers or pointless lyrics. They are the songs I listen to when writing each chapter, and are added above each one as I feel that they tie in with the particular chapter written and add to the overall tone of the story. Once again thank you for your time to those of you how have read this authors note and thank you for reading.**

** Once again thank you to those of you how have followed and added this story to their favourites. Feel free to leave suggestions on any one-shots or short stories you would like for me to write next. Thank you. **

_**~ Fenrir Vanagandr **_


	3. The Price of Insanity

**Authors Note: This one-shot contains scenes of gore, violence and abuse. To those of you who would prefer not to/do not like reading content of this nature, I would advise that you stop reading after this authors note.**

**Disclaimer:** **I do not own the Twilight series or any of the characters used in the making of this story, they belong to the book sagas author Miss Stephanie Meyer.**

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><p><em>I see the clouds they're rolling in<em>

_They hide the sun but not my sin_

_The Judas kiss on my lips_

_Can't walk away from where I've been_

_Hear the calling_

_Walkin' on the water _

_Darkness under my feet_

_Gonna make the devil holler_

_Hallelujah_

_I'm tired of watchin' shadows bleed _

_Fighting for nothin' but a need_

_The seventh fall is on my knees_

_Let sighs and secrets cover me_

_Hear the calling_

_The Calling – TJ & Cait_

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><p>I have a secret. It's one I found out about a very long time ago, I can't even remember exactly when.<p>

I live outside a small village, on a hill, with my family. Or at least what's left of them. I think it's something to do with our blood, maybe that's why. Whatever the reason is, my family has been rather…unlucky. The thing is, our village lives in fear of a wolf. This wolf has a petrifying glare, glowing golden eyes, sleek black fur the colour of the darkest night. Its claws are razor sharp, as are its teeth which are arranged in perfect rows, and all the claws are sharpened neatly. I haven't ever been able to see the wolf myself, despite my family's misfortune with it, but I've heard many stories.

You can't hear it coming unless it wants you to hear it, and when it does, the only reason is so the wolf can terrify you before it makes its move. There's no way you can escape once it decides it wants to kill you anyway. From the very few who have escaped the wolf, (they didn't live long enough mind you) they've seen it kill, they've seen its gums roll back, heard its deep blood curdling growl, seen its fur matted and its teeth stained red with blood.

The village people hate talking about it, the wolf terrifies them. They say it should terrify me too, say it'll come for me soon enough, even though I haven't seen it up to this point, doesn't mean that I won't see it in the future. I know what they say is most likely true, but I won't worry about that until I absolutely have to.

My little sister says she likes the wolf, that its kind to her, that she's seen it and it didn't attack her, didn't growl at her, that it didn't bare its sharp teeth or extend its claws. I told her that she's lucky, we both are, and she can't tell the villagers no matter what about the wolfs kindness to her. When she asked me why, I explained that the villagers would suspect us of witchcraft, or something else like that. I mean, two orphans living outside the village, both parents killed by the wolf, and the wolf doesn't even look twice at the children? They would be wrong to not be suspicious. So I tell my little sister to pretend to be afraid. If her friends ask, I tell her to say she is terrified of the wolf, even though she's never seen it. Even though it's lying, it's better than the villagers running us out. I'm able to get away with saying I'm not scared because they blame it on my adolescent idiocy, and I let them. I let them think that again because it keeps my sister safe.

Tonight is the full moon and the town is in anarchy, they seem to think that the full moon is when the wolf is the most powerful, deadly, and it's the time when they're most frightened. It's their fear that truly feeds the wolf, it feeds off it. Honestly, I would think the wolf would be at its best during the new moon. It's dark due to the lack of moonlight, making it easier to hunt, kill, and go unnoticed. Then again, if the wolf was going for appearances, it would appear most during the full moon; I mean, think about it, all the moonlight glistening off the fur, teeth, eyes and its stereotypical norm. Oh well. Since there's time until dusk, I suppose I'll recall the death of my parents. My little sister's out gathering fruits and shopping anyway, so I'm alone and I have nothing better to do.

It was my mother who died first, and her death occurred on a sunny day, much like today actually. I know how cliché that sounds, but it's true, and I'd be a liar if I said it was like any other day. Anyway, my father was out with my sister, wandering through the woods. If I recall he was teaching her how she could always find her way home if she was to ever get lost and things like that. More to the point, Mother and I were fighting, , and we had been the past week, and part of the reason Father had taken my little sister out was because of Mother and I's fighting, which had only been getting worse. I can't even remember what we were even fighting about. I think it was that I had let one of the sheep get killed, or something stupid like that. I had stormed out of the house, having had enough of the yelling and the fighting, and that entire harsh environment.

I remember going down to the river on the other side of the house, down the hill, the opposite side of the village. I also remember sitting down on the riverbank, crying out of anger…Mother came after about ten minutes; I heard the door to the house open and close, not even harshly. She closed it quietly, as if remorseful for our argument. It took her a few minutes to find me; she looked for me quietly, not calling my name, hardly making a sound. When she came upon me, burying my head in my knees, she placed a gentle hand on my back trying to comfort me. I forced myself to look up at her, and my mistake. It's true; I shouldn't have yelled at her, I shouldn't have…done what I did at the time. In those moments, in all my anger, I should never have shown Mother my wrath. Though, I wonder if she, looking down upon me, would forgive me. I've never forgiven myself, but I've learned to put it behind me and not think about it. Her torn flesh flowed down the river, some piled on top of the hill, and her blood stained the river red. I sit beside her mangled, unrecognisable body, sobbing. Though at the time, I didn't feel anything, it was just so I could blame the wolf. You see, that's the benefit of having a wolf torment your village.

Next was Father. After Mother's death, Father began drinking…a lot. Sometimes he even hit me, and he would try to hit my younger sister, but I would always step in and be hit in her place. I've always felt this need to protect her. After a while I got sick of having to deal with it. Scratches became scars, anger became hatred, and a distant hope became my sole purpose in life. I lost myself to my anger, except for when I was around my little sister. I pushed away all my friends, all the adults who offered and tried to help. We both became quieter, more shut-in. We only talked to each other, and we would avoid father as often as possible, going for long walks in the forest, and even sometimes sleeping outside or on the roof.

My hatred grew and festered as slowly, time passed, despite how quickly it seemed to go sometimes. But one day, I had gone out, for maybe ten minutes, and I had thought that it would be okay to leave my little sister by herself for that short amount of time, but I was wrong. When I got back, I found my sister lying on the ground, blood spilling messily from her head; a broken bottle lay beside her, half of it shattered, the other half cracked badly. My father lay passed out on the sofa. I lost it I drug my father out of the house, by his ugly, fat neck, and tore him to pieces just outside the house, though slowly. I wanted him to suffer; I want him to know why it had all come to that, why he was suffering, and that I would not let him die quickly and painlessly. There was a point after he woke up where he looked longingly into my eyes, pleading silently for me to spare him. It's pitiful, and it made me want to laugh in his face, and tell him he did this to himself, and if I spared him now, he would only go back to how he was before, no matter how many times he lied and said he'd change and be a better Father. People never truly change. It's just a bunch of lies.

Eventually, his body is similar to how my mother's was a bloody mess of incoherent, unrecognisable flesh. I laugh hysterically, manically, pleased with my messy, yet efficient work. Once again, I blame it on the wolf.

Tonight will be a marvellous night. The sun has set and the moon has risen. So I set out, sneaking around the village, in alleys and shadows. I pick my first house and attack. I drag a couple of bloody corpses outside so they can be viewed like art. It doesn't matter anyway, by the end of the night, everyone will be dead. I dye the streets red, my dark fur matted, and I come to my last victim. A young girl, desperately clutching a little doll, cowering in a shadowy corner that has not yet been painted, tears streaming down her face. She knows what I am going to do, and she begs for her life. She pleads with me not to do it. I've killed both her parents, very brutally, why can't she be spared? A good question, she is quite young. Though, I answer in a deep tone, a growl on the surface, but words lie hidden beneath it. "I'm sorry, I never leave survivors."

"Please…big brother…" I discard her pleas, and tear out her throat, her blood spray everywhere, coating the alley walls before seeping into the dirt beneath her bloodless corpse. Her thick, viscous blood dripping from my muzzle and teeth, and it was glorious.

"How disgusting." I growl. I walk through the empty streets, viewing my destruction, feeling nothing. Shattered windows, shattered lives, houses crumbling into dust, and death lurking in the dark. Human life is so fragile. Quite the marvellous site.

In the morning, I wake in my soft, warm bed, and pack my few things. I begin my journey to the next village over. It will be a long walk, and it will be tiring but I'll manage. I always do. After I've had enough fun with one village, I move onto the next, telling of the destruction and tragedy that took the previous. I really can't wait to see what my new home looks like. I love going to new villages, never tied down, no connections, and no true family.

Though this always ends the same, I arrive alone, and I leave alone. I'm a lone survivor, a lone child, and a lone wolf.

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you to those of you who have gotten this far with <strong>_**The Wolves Of Paris**_**, I do not know when the next upload will be, as I do not know what I am going to be writing about beyond this chapter although you will be the first to know when I do. **

**~ Fenrir Vanagandr **


	4. Scatter My Ashes

**Authors Note: This chapter contains scenes violent in nature, implied torture, and abuse, mentions of rape, blood, death and strong language. There is an M rating on this fiction for a reason. For those of you who do not like themes of this nature and may find them upsetting, I strongly suggest that you stop reading now. **

**For those of you that are continuing to read, I thank you for reading my fanfiction and for your continued support. It is much appreciated. This particular one-shot is heavy on the horror, and the supernatural aspects are more subtle. I will leave you to guess who the person's point of view maybe. **

_**Fenrir Vanagandr ~**_

**I do not own the Twilight series or any of the characters used in the making of this story, they belong to the book sagas author Miss Stephanie Meyer. **

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><p><em>Take me to church<em>

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me the deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

_No Masters or Kings_

_When the Ritual begins_

_There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin_

_In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene_

_Only then I am Human_

_Only then I am Clean_

_Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen_

_Hozier – Take Me To Church_

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><p>Every night, at exactly a quarter past three, something unspeakable happens on the street outside our bedroom window. We peek through the curtains, yawning and shivering in the life-draining chill, and then we clamber back beneath the blankets without exchanging a word, to hug each other closely and hope for sound sleep to claim them before it is time to rise.<p>

Usually what we witness verges on the mundane. Drunken young men fighting, swaying about with outstretched knives, cursing incoherently. Robbery, bashings, rape. We wince to see such violence, but we can hardly be shocked or surprised anymore, and we are never tempted to intervene; it's always far too cold, for a start! A single warm exhalation can coat the window pane with mist, transforming the most macabre assault into a safely cryptic ballet for abstract blobs of light.

On some nights though, when the shadows that are cast across the room are subtly wrong, when the familiar street looks like an abandoned film set, or a painting of itself perversely come to life, we are confronted by truly disturbing sights, oppressive apparitions which almost make us doubt that we are awake, or if awake, sane. I cannot catalogue the visions, for most, mercifully are blurred by morning, leaving only a vague uneasiness and a reluctance to be alone even in the brightest sunshine.

One image though, has never faded.

In the middle of the road was an enormous human skull. How big was it? Big enough for a child, perhaps six or seven years old, standing trapped between the jaws, bracing them apart with outstretched arms and legs, trembling with the effort but somehow, miraculously, keeping the massive teeth from closing in.

As we watched I felt, as strange as it may sound, inspired. Uplifted, filled with hope by the sight of the tiny figure holding out against the blind, brutal creature of evil. Wouldn't we all like to think of innocence as a tangible force to be reckoned with? Despite all evidence to the contrary.

Then the four huge, blunt teeth against which the child was straining against began to reform, tapering to needle-fine points. A drop of blood fell from the back of each upraised hand. I cried out something akin to angry and horrified, however I did not move.

A gash appeared in the back of the child's neck. Not a wound: a mouth, the child's knew and special mouth, violently writhing, stretched open ever wider by four sharp, slender fangs growing in perfect mimicry of the larger fangs impaling the child's palms and feet.

The new mouth began to scream, at first a clumsy choking sound, made without a tongue, but then a torn, bloody scrap of flesh appeared in place. The tongue of the old mouth uprooted and inverted, and the cries gave full voice to an intensity of suffering and fear that threatened to melt the glass of the window, sear away the walls of the room, and drag us into a pit of darkness where one final scream would echo forever.

When it was over, we climbed into bed and snuggled up together.

I dreamt that I found a jigsaw puzzle, hidden in a dark, lost corner of the house. The pieces were in a plain cardboard box, unaccompanied by any illustration of what the assembled puzzle portrayed. Bella laughed and told me not to waste my time, but I sat frowning over it for over an hour every evening, until after many weeks only a handful of pieces remained unplaced.

Somehow, even then, I didn't know what the picture was, but as I lazily filled in the very last gap, I felt a sudden overpowering conviction that whatever the jigsaw showed, _I did not want to see it. _

I woke a little before dawn. I kissed Isabella very softly; I gently stroked her shoulders and breasts with my fingertips. She rearranged herself, pulled a face, but did not wake. I was about to brush her forehead with one hand, knowing that it would make her open her eyes and give me a sleepy smile, when it occurred to me that if she did, there might be small fanged mouths behind her eyelids.

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><p>When I woke again it was half past seven, and she was already up. I hate that. I hate having to wake up alone in an empty bed. Isabella was reading the paper as I sat down to breakfast.<p>

"So what's happening in the world?"

"A fifth child has gone missing."

"Shit. Don't they have any suspects yet? Any evidence they may have found? Any clues at all?"

"A fisherman reported that he saw something floating in the lake. The police went out in a boat in order to take a look."

"And?"

"It turned out to be a lamb foetus."

I gulped down my coffee, savouring the burn as it slid down my throat. I hate the taste of coffee, and it sets my stomach churning, but I simply have to drink it.

"It says the police will be diving all day searching the lake, before they dredge it."

"I might go out there then. The lake looks fantastic in this weather."

"When I'm safe and snug in my office with the heater on full blast, I'll think of you."

"Haha…Think of the divers. They'll have the worst of it."

"At least they know they'll get paid. You could spend the entire day out there for nothing."

"I'd rather take my kind of risk than theirs."

Once Isabella was gone, I cut out the article about the vanished child. The walls of my study are papered with newsprint, ragged grey odd-shaped pieces affixed to the wall by their top corners, leaving them free to rustle as they please when the door is opened or closed.

"Put them in a scrap book!" Isabella says, whenever she ventures into my study, only to grimace at the state of the room. "Or better still, put them in a filing cabinet and see if you can lose the key!" But I need to keep them this way. I need to see them all at once, spread out before me like a satellite photograph, an aerial view of this age of violence. I'm looking for a pattern. My gaze darts from headline to headline, from STRANGER to STALKER to RIPPER to SLASHER, hunting for a clue to the terrible unity, hunting for the nature of the single dark force that I know lies behind all the different stories of nightmares and fearful names.

I have books too, of course. I have shelves filled to the brim with volumes, some learned, some hysterical, from treatises on Vlad the Impaler to discussions of the entrails of London prostitutes to heavy psychoanalysis of the Manson gang. I have skimmed these works, read a page here and there, only for it to clutter my mind with details of which can only distract me from the whole.

I recall precisely when my obsession first began. I was ten. A convict, a murderer, had escaped from the nearby prison, and warnings were broadcast urging us to barricade our homes. My parents, naturally, tried not to alarm me, but we all slept together that night, in the room with the smallest window, and when the poor cat mewed to be let in the back door, my mother would let nobody, not even my father, budge.

I dozed and woke, dozed and woke, and each time I dreamt that I was not sleeping but lying awake, waiting for the utter certainty of the unstoppable, blood-thirsty creature bursting through the door and slicing us all in two.

They caught him the next morning. They caught him too late. A service station attendant was found dead, cut up beyond belief by an implement that was never found.

They showed the killer on TV that night, and he looked nothing like the stuff of nightmares: thin, awkward, squinting, dwarfed between two massive smug policemen. Yet for all his apparent weakness and shyness, he seemed to know something, he seemed to be holding a secret, not too much about murder itself as about the cameras, the viewers, about exactly what he meant to us. He averted his eyes from the lenses, but a hint of a smile on his lips declared that everything was, and always would be, just the way he wanted it, just the way he'd planned it from the start.

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><p>I drove to the lake and set up my camera with its longest lens, but after peering through the viewfinder for ten minutes, keeping the police boat perfectly framed, following its every tiny drift, I switched to binoculars to save my eyes and neck. Nothing was happening. Faint shouts could be heard now and again, but the tones were always of boredom, discomfort and irritation. Soon enough I put down my binoculars. If they found something, I'd hear the change at once.<p>

I drank coffee from my flask as I paced. I took a few shots of divers back flipping into the water, but none seemed special, none captured the mood. I watched the water birds and felt somehow guilty for not knowing their names.

The sky and the water were a pale shade of grey, the colour of the early morning sky. Thick smoke rose from a factory on the far shore, but seemed to fall back down to again on the spot from where It came. The chill, the bleakness, and the morbid nature of my vigil worked together to fill me with an oppressive sense of gloom, but cutting through the dullness and despair of the day was the acidic taste of anticipation.

My back was turned when I heard the shouts of panic. It took me seconds to spot the boat again, forever to point the camera. An inert diver was being hauled on board, to the sound of much angry swearing. Someone ripped off his face mask and began resuscitation. Each time I fired the shutter, I thought: what if he dies? If he dies it will be my fault because if he dies I'll have a sale for sure.

I packed up my gear and fled before the boat reached the shore, but not before the ambulance arrived. I glanced at the driver, who looked about my age, and thought: why am I doing this job, and not his? Why am I a voyeur, a parasite, a vulture, a leech, when I could be saving people's lives and sleeping the sleep of the just every night?

Later, I discovered that the cop was in a coma. Evidently there'd been a malfunction with his air supply. I sold one of the pictures, which appeared with the caption KISS OF LIFE! The editor said, "That could easily win you a prize." I smiled immodestly and mumbled about luck.

Isabella is a literary agent. We went out to dinner with one of her clients, to celebrate the signing of a contract. The writer was a quiet, thoughtful attractive woman. Her husband worked in a bank, but played football for some team or other on weekends, and was built like a vault.

"So, what do you do for a crust?" he asked

"I'm a freelance photographer."

"What's that mean? Fashion models for the front of _Vogue _or centrefolds for _Playboy_?"

"Neither. Most of my work is for newspapers, or news magazines. I had a picture in _Time _last year."

"What of?"

"Flood victims trapped on the rood of their farm."

"Yeah? Did you pay them some of what you got for it?"

Bella broke in and described my day's achievement, and the topic switched naturally to that of the missing child.

"If they ever catch the bloke who's doing it," said the footballer, "he shouldn't be killed. He should be tortured for a couple of days, and then crippled. Say they cut off both his legs. Then there's no chance he'll escape from prison on his own steam and when they let him free in a year or two, like they always end up doing, who's he going to hurt?"

The writer said, "Maybe the Innocents are ascending into Heaven."

For a moment I thought she was serious, but then she smirked at the cleverness of her sarcasm. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the evening.

In the taxi home though, I couldn't help muttering a vague, clumsy insult about Neanderthal fascists who revelled in torture. Bella laughed and put an arm around my waist.

"Jealousy becomes you," she said. I couldn't think of an intelligent reply.

That night we witnessed a particularly brutal robbery. A taxi pulled up across the road, and the passengers dragged the driver out and kicked him in the head until he was motionless. They virtually stripped him naked searching for the key to his cashbox, then they smashed his radio, slashed his tyres, and stabbed him in the stomach before walking off, whistling Rossini.

Once Isabella had drifted off back to sleep, I crept out of the bedroom and phoned for an ambulance. I nearly went outside to see what I could do, but though that if I move him, if even just try to stop the bleeding, I'll probably end up doing more harm than good, maybe manage to kill him with my well-intentioned incompetence. End up in court. I'd be crazy to take the risk.

I fell asleep before the ambulance arrived. By morning there wasn't a trace of the incident. The taxi must have been towed away, the blood washed off the road by the water truck.

* * *

><p>A sixth child had vanished. I returned to the lake, but found it was deserted. I dipped my hand in the water, it was oily and surprisingly warm. Then I drove back home, cut out the relevant articles, and taped them into place on the wall.<p>

As I did so, the jigsaw puzzle dream flooded into my mind, with the dizzying power of déjà vu. I stared at the huge grey mosaic, almost expecting it to change before my very eyes, but then the mood passed and I shook my head and laughed weakly.

The door opened. I didn't turn. Someone coughed. I still didn't turn.

"Excuse me."

It was a man in his mid-thirties, I'd say. Balding slightly, but with a young open face. He was dressed like an office worker, in a white shirt with cuffs rolled up, neatly pressed black trousers, and a plain blue tie.

"What do you want?"

"I'm sorry. I knocked on the front door, and it was ajar. Then I called out twice."

"I didn't hear you."

"What do you want?"

"Can I look? At your walls? Oh there! The Marsden Mangler! I wonder how many people remember him today. Five years ago there were two thousand police working full time on that case, and probably a hundred reporters scurrying back and forth between the morgue and the night club belt. You know, half the jury fainted when they showed slides at the trial, including an abattoir worker."

"Nobody _fainted_. A few people closed their eyes, that's all. I was there."

"Watching the jury and not the slides, apparently."

"Watching both. Were you there?"

"Oh yes! Every day without fail."

"Well, I don't remember you. And I got to know most of the regular faces in the public gallery."

"I was never _in_ the public gallery." He crossed the room to peer closely at a Sunday paper's diagram detailing the _modus operandi_ of the Knightsbridge Knifeman. "This is pretty coy, isn't it? I mean, anybody would think that the female genitalia - " I glared at him, and he turned his attention to something else, smiling a slight smile of tolerant amusement.

"How did you find out about my collection of clippings?" It wasn't something that I boasted about, and Isabella found it a bit embarrassing, perhaps a bit sick.

"_Collect of clippings!_ You mustn't call it that! I watched him as he read a two-page spread on a series of unsolved axe murders, and though his gaze was clearly directed at the print, I felt as if he was staring straight back at me.

Then I knew that I _had _seen him before. Twenty years before, on television, smiling shyly as they hustled him along, never quite looking at the camera, but never quite turning away. My eyes began to water, and a crazy thought filled my head. Hadn't I known then, hadn't I been certain, that the killer would come and get me and that nothing would stand in his way? That the man had not aged was unremarkable, no, it was _necessary,_ because if he had aged I would never have recognised him, and recognition was exactly what he wanted. Recognition was the start of my fear.

I said, "You might tell me your name."

He looked up. "I'm sorry. I have been discourteous, haven't I? But –"he shrugged "- I have so many nicknames." He gestured widely with both hands, taking in all the walls, all the headlines. I pictured the door handle, wondering how quickly I could turn it with palms stinking wet, with numb, clumsy fingers. "My friends, though, call me Jack."

He easily lifted me over his head, and then somehow (did he float up off the floor, or did he _stretch_ up, impossibly doubling his height?) pinned me face-down against the ceiling. Four fangs grew to fill his mouth, and his mouth opened to fill my vision. It was like hanging over a living well, and as his distorted words echoed up the depths, I thought that if I fall, nobody will ever find me.

"Tonight you will take my photograph. Catch me in the act with your brightest flashgun. That's what you want isn't it?" He shook me. "Isn't it?" I closed my eyes , but that brought visions of a tumbling descent. I whispered, "Yes."

"You invoke me and invoke me and invoke me!" he ranted. "Aren't you ever sick of blood? Aren't you ever sick of the taste of blood? Today its blood of tiny children, tomorrow the blood of old women, next the blood of…who? Dark-haired prostitutes? Teenage baby sitters? And each time simply leaves you more jaded, longing for something crueller and more bizarre. Can't you sweeten your long, bland lives with anything but blood?

"Colour film. Bring plenty of colour film. Kodachrome, I want saturated hues. Understand? I nodded. He told me where and when; a nearby street corner at three fifteen.

I hit the floor with my hands out in front of me, jarring one wrist but not breaking it. I was alone. I ran through the house, I searched every room, then locked the doors and sat on the bed, shaking, emitting small, unhappy noises every few minutes.

When I'd calmed down, I went out and bought ten rolls of Kodachrome.

* * *

><p>We ate at home that night. I was supposed to cook something, but I ended up making do with frozen pizzas. Isabella talked about her tax problems, and I nodded.<p>

"And what did you do with yourself today?"

"Research."

"For what?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow."

We made love. For a while it seemed like some sort of ritual, some kind of magic. Bella was giving me strength, yes, she was fortifying me with mystical energy and spiritual power. Afterwards, I couldn't laugh at such a ludicrous idea, I could only despise myself for being able to take it seriously for a moment.

I dreamt that she gave me a shining silver sword.

"What's it for?" I asked her.

"When you feel like running away, stab yourself in the foot."

I climbed out of bed at two. It was completely and utterly freezing, even once I was fully dressed. I sat in the kitchen with the light off, drinking coffee until I was so bloated that I could hardly breathe. Then I staggered to the toilet and threw it all up. My throat and lungs stung, I wanted to curl up and dissolve, or crawl back to the warm blankets, back to Bella, to stay hidden under the covers until morning.

As I clicked the front door shut, it was like diving into a moonlit pool. Being safe indoors was at once a distant memory, lying warm in a bed was a near forgotten dream. No cars, no distant traffic noises, no clouds, just a huge night sky and empty, endless streets.

It was five to three when I reached the place. I paced for a while, and then walked around the block, but that only killed three minutes. I chose a direction and resolved to walk a straight line for seven minutes, then turned around and come back.

If I didn't turn around, if I kept walking, would he catch me? Would he return to the house and punish me? What if we moved to another city, another state?

I passed a phone box, an almost blinding slab of solid light. I jingled my pockets; then remembered that I'd need no coin. I stood outside the booth for two minutes, I lingered in the half-open doorway for three, and then I lifted and replaced the handset a dozen times before I finally dialled.

When the operator answered, I slammed the phone down, I needed to lie down. I dialled again, and asked for the police. It was so easy. I even gave them my true name and address when they asked, without the least hesitation. I said "thank you" about six thousand times.

I looked at my watch; thirteen past three. I ran for the corner, camera swinging by the carrying strap, and made it back in ninety seconds.

Someone was climbing out through a dark window, holding a gagged, struggling child. It wasn't the man who'd called himself Jack, it wasn't the killer I'd seen on TV when I was ten.

I raised my camera.

Drop it and _do something_, drop it and save the child you fool! Me against him? Against _that_? I'd be slaughtered! The police are coming; it's the job, isn't it? Just take the pictures. It's what you really want; it's what you're here to do.

Once I'd fired the shutter, once I'd taken the first shot, it was like flicking through the pages of a magazine. I was sickened, I was horrified, I was angry, but I wasn't_ there_, so what could I do? The child was tortured. The child was mutilated. The child suffered but I heard no cries, and I saw only the flashguns frozen tableaux, a sequence of badly made waxworks.

The killer and I arranged each shot with care. He waited patiently while the flash recharged, and whilst I changed rolls. He was a consummate model, each pose he struck appeared completely natural and utterly spontaneous.

I didn't notice just when the child actually died. I only noticed when I ran out of film. It was then that I looked around at the houses on the street and saw half a dozen couples, peeking through their bedroom windows and stifling yawns.

He sprinted away when the police arrived. They didn't pursue him in the car; one officer loped off after him, the other knelt to examine the remains, and then walked up to me. He tipped his head at my camera.

"Got it all, did you?"

I nodded. Accomplice, accomplice, accomplice. How could I ever explain, let alone try to excuse my inaction?

"Fantastic. Well done."

Two more police cars appeared, and then the officer who'd gone in pursuit came marching up the street, pushing the hand-cuffed killer ahead of him.

* * *

><p>The best of the photographs were published worldwide, even shown on TV. A thousand law-abiding citizens rioted outside the courthouse, burning and slashing effigies, when he appeared to be placed on remand.<p>

He was killed in his cell a week before the trial was due to start. He was tortured, raped and mutilated first. He must have been expecting to die, because he had written out a will:

_Burn my body and scatter my ashes from a high place._

_Only then will I be happy. Only then will I find piece. _

They did it for him too.

He has a special place on my wall now, and I will never tire of reviewing it. The whole process can be seen at a glance. How the tabloids cheered him on, rewarding each presumed death with ever larger headlines, ever grislier speculations. How the serious papers strove so earnestly to understand him, with scholarly dissertations on the formative years of the great modern killers. How all the well-oiled mechanisms slipped into gear, how everybody knew their role. Quotes from politicians "The community it outraged." But the outrage was bottled, recycled, flat and insincere.

What would-be killer could hesitate could resist even for a second, such a cosy niche so lovingly prepared.

And I understand now why he wanted me there that night. He must've believed that if people could see, in colour, in close-up, the kind of atrocities that we treat as an industry, an entertainment, a thrilling diversion from the pettiness and banality of our empty lives, then we would recoil, we would at last feel some genuine shock, some genuine sadness, we would at last be cured, and he would be free.

He was wrong.

So they've burnt his corpse and scattered his ashes. So what? Did he really believe that could possibly help him, did he really hope to end the interminable cycle of his incarnations?

I dream of fine black cinders borne by the wind, floating down to anoint ten thousand feverish brows. The sight of the tortured child, you see, has exerted an awful fascination upon people around the world.

The first wave of imitators copied the murder exactly as portrayed by my slides.

The second wave embellished and improvised.

The current fashion is for live broadcasts, and the change of medium has, of course, had some influence on the technical details of the act.

I often sit in my study these days, just staring at the walls. Now and then I suffer moments of blind panic, when I am convinced for no reason that Jack has returned, and is standing right behind me with his mouth stretched open. But when I turn and look, I am always still alone. Alone with the headlines, alone with photographs, alone with my obsession.

And that, somehow, is far more frightening.

* * *

><p>"<em>The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity."<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Once again thank you for your follows, favourites and support, it truly does mean the world to me and that my writing is not in vain. <strong>

**I will leave it to you to guess which member of our beloved La Push pack is our mysterious Jack and whose point of view this chapter is written in. **

**I am terribly sorry for not updating in the past month, but as always life gets in the way and real life problems must take precedence. Do not fear however, as I am back now, and will once again to continue with updates to the Wolves Of Paris and some new series of one-shots which I will posting soon. The first one will most likely be posted tomorrow afternoon my time, however the name of the fiction is currently undecided. **

**Tah tah for now. **

_**Fenrir Vanagandr ~ **_


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